To Match Thy Goodness
by the-aleator
Summary: (AU) The magic didn't stop that night at the ball; or, marrying Kit gave Ella a crown, a husband, and a father. The tale of how Ella and Kit gave the King, Edmund, a family.
1. Feel This Pinprick?

**Title:** To Match Thy Goodness

 **Characters:** The King, Kit aka Prince Charming, talk of Cinderella

 **Rating:** K+

 **Wordcount:** 1035  
 **Warnings/Spoilers:** Basic _Cinderella_ spoilers and speculation. Also, disinclination to follow new re-imaginings of Cinderella and dysfunctional backstories; please be warned, here there be folklore and historical research.  
 **Summary:** _(AU) The magic didn't stop that night at the ball; or, marrying Kit gave Ella a crown, a husband, and a father. The tale of how Ella and Kit gave the King, Edmund, a family._

 **A/N:** So, I saw Cinderella (2015), and while for the most part, it was entertaining, I kept thinking to myself, but why didn't they do _that_? or _why_ did they do _that_? Therefore, I wrestled out my copies of _The Lord of the Rings_ and _King Lear_ , and off we went on a wild adventure. The title of this fic and the chapter is taken from Act IV, Scene VII of _King Lear_ , and the germ of the idea comes from Lear: "You have some cause to hate;" Cordelia: "No cause, no cause." I'm hoping to post for this story every one or two days, short chapters I suspect.(This remains unbeta-ed and barely edited. I welcome any and all feedback.)

* * *

Feel This Pin Prick?

 _Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?_  
 _I am mightily abused. I should e'en die with pity,_  
 _To see another thus. I know not what to say._  
 _I will not swear these are my hands: let's see;_  
 _I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured_  
 _Of my condition!_

...Lear, _King Lear,_ Act IV, Scene VII

* * *

The boy slumped down the settee, and played with his wine glass, watching the dark red liquid roll and cast reflections through the sharp cuts of the crystal goblet. Staring into the fire, the gold light playing across his face, with the heaviness of past months weighing on his brow and under his eyes, he looked old in the firelight. Part of that gravity was due to the ball, only three nights hence and a tangled skein of duty and pleasure.

It had been a long time, Edmund King thought, since his son had come to sit and drink wine before the fire with him. They had done this often, many years ago, particularly when the wind was cold and the night was full over the palace. The red velvet settee, so near to the fire, was the site of so many happy memories. He, his wife, and his son, all sitting there before the fire, perfectly content in each other's company. Now, of course, his son sat there by himself, and his father at the small writing desk in the corner under the window, with the gulf of cold floor between them.

The boy looked old, even as Edmund himself began to feel his own age. The worrying illness will not get better, and that is a cause for future grief. But Kit also looked young, younger than he has looked these past years since the death of his mother, with the hint of hope in his eyes, and the determined set to his mouth. The hope of happiness has been reawakened in him. The king is supposed to be writing a letter, but all he can do at this unguarded moment is to watch his son and the slow play of wonder across his face.

"She was like a dream" he said, taking a sip from his glass, ostensibly talking to himself, but really talking to his father.

"Beautiful, was she, this forest girl?" Edmund murmured fondly, teasingly, under his breath. He has not written a word for nearly ten minutes, and the ink on his pen is all but dry but Kit is so lost in remembering that he does not notice the pretense.

"She was beautiful." He agreed, absentmindedly, "but that was not all, for she rode like the wind and there was such music to her voice that I could not help but tarry." Even as Kit slipped into the cloth of his memories, comfortable and pleasant as an old cloak, Edmund could not help but remember with grief his own wife, Adelaide the Queen, whose own voice had sounded like the ringing of little bells on the holy days.

Even her silence, he thought sadly, was as music, just waiting to be born in laughter and joy. She had had the beauty of the stars at night, with hair so black it shone blue, and eyes so blue they looked violet. Her son, Kit, was so like her, in looks and in spirit.

"She did not know me for the prince, but scolded me for chasing the stag at hunt" Kit said, shaking his head in disbelief, his glass near empty. And then, he sat bolt upright, and turned to his father and said,

"Do you know what she said to me, father? I could not help but agree with her. She said the stag was too beautiful a thing, too magnificent, to waste for one night's good supper." He paused, and his face went quite still, "For that moment, when she spoke, I knew her to be true. The stag was too beautiful to kill."

"They laughed at you, no doubt." Edmund said drily, abandoning his letter, and turning to look at his son. Had he ever seen that look of fiery determination before on his face? Perhaps as a child, for his first horse or fencing lesson, but not since. "Thought you a fool."

"But I was not a fool." Kit erupted, eyes snapping with temper. "The stag was too beautiful to kill; only, I had not seen it before, how magnificent it was. She showed me that." He said, and there was a look to his face, ageless, that Edmund did not dare to name.

The room was so charged with such feeling that neither Kit nor Edmund dared to speak for several long minutes. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the wind blowing against the window panes. Ashamed, Edmund looked at his letter sorrowfully; he could not meet his son's eyes with such righteousness in them.

"You cannot love her, my son." Edmund said gently. "You must do your duty as the Prince."

"And what is my duty," Kit snapped, "but to marry well?"

"For the Kingdom."

"But not for myself."

"The Kingdom must come first." Edmund admonished him, eyes rising from the window to meet his son. "Our people must come first."

"But what if it is the same?" Kit wanted to know, "Would the people not love their own? And would not my happiness settle the Kingdom?"

"Your mother…" Edmund said, quietly, playing with the pen between his fingers, and could not continue. Even after all this time, there was an deep ache inside him, something like the way his bones ached in winter, but deeper, fuller and more essential.

"My mother had the love of the people," Kit murmured softly, "and she had the love of the King. Why should I not have the same?"

Edmund, who knew all the arguments, did not know how to answer him. The Grand Duke, Ian, would have an answer, of course, but Edmund did not think the question could truly be answered. Why should one have happiness and not the other? Finding no answer, Kit arose stiffly, and bowed, walking to the door.

To his shame, it was only after the door had already shut behind him that Edmund was able to say, in an unsteady voice, "I do not know. I do not know, my son." Adelaide would have known how to put this right, but Edmund did not.

There were no good-nights that evening, not for Kit, the Prince, not for Edmund, the King, or not even for Ella, asleep in her cinders.


	2. When Did You Die?

**Title:** To Match Thy Goodness

 **Rating:** K+

 **Wordcount:** 1160 (2195)

 **A/N:** This is where the AU starts to kick off. And I'm happy to say, that Kit will be marrying Ella; this is not that much of an AU. What it really is, is an AU of the AU back to the original 1950s Disney version. If that makes sense to you, I guess. For some reason, dogs always seem to do that in my stories. That little conversation we had last chapter has ramifications. We have a few more chapters to go, certainly, before this story even thinks of ending. Parts of this chapter draw from Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and Gerard Manley Hopkins' "As Kingfishers Catch Fire." This remains unbeta-ed and barely edited. I welcome any and all feedback (reviews are lovely things!.)

* * *

When Did You Die?

 _You are a spirit, I know: when did you die?_

…Lear, _King Lear_ , Act IV, Scene VII

* * *

The night after the ball, Edmund the King woke early, while the first hints of lavender were still budding in the grey, twilight sky.

Dawn was breaking, and the King, deeply moved but not knowing why, woke. There were tears on his pillow and his bed was cold. His room was dark, and it was only his long years of experience that let him navigate his room without incident. Dressing gown over his shoulders, he paused for a long while in the open door. He was stupefied to discover that the whole castle was silent at this hour in the morning. No thrum from the kitchens, no clang or clatter from the courtyard, even the candles on the walls seemed muted.

Was it anticipation, he felt, to discover what lay beyond this silence? Or was it simply the release of being present only to oneself, watched by no one, but the darkened gaze of the stars beyond the windowpanes. Even the stones of the castle seemed content to lie sleeping, and the birds of the morning had not yet begun their song.

It was at moments like these that the King could most admit to himself that he felt most alive. Kingship was more a duty than a joy, but there were moments when it was most worthwhile. When he and Adelaide were young, and felt this fierce and free, they would have stolen away from the castles on horseback, had a picnic down the river, and simply walked among the people of their land. Those beautiful days, Edmund thought, would never come again.

" _Ah_ , but my dear," He said aloud, with great sorrow, "they were so beautiful with you." He was surprised to find his hand trembling against his side, and his heart felt like it beat twice its time.

The long descent to the gardens was like a dream. The king encountered no one as he traversed one long grey passageway after another, and if pressed to it, could not say where he had been, or where he was going. Whatever moved him to go to his queen's gardens was so deep within him that it could not be named.

Love, it might be supposed, was the name for it. But love, often enough in tales of this kind, bespeaks only the kind of instant desire that rises between two complementary lovers. It is the love of the first kiss, the midnight parting at the ball. It is a love which has not yet had time for much attachment. It is the love of flowers, which grow in splendor, bloom in full beauty, and then pass away, all within the length of a single season. Knowing at first sight, and knowing at fifty sights, the difference between those two is love.

Where the light from the dawn broke through the trees, their crowning branches shone silver overhead, but the hedges and bushes, the grass and benches of the garden were gray in the morning mist. The merest slant of light was enough to make even the meanest tree sparkle. Though his wife was buried far beyond the castle gates, in the royal cemetery nearest the sea, he felt closest to her here, for here she had loved to sit and simply to look.

The roses, her roses, were not yet in bloom, but full buds lay beneath the morning dew. Some days hence, they would be a tapestry of red and cream, pink and yellow. He sat, suddenly exhausted, on the bench nearest the pond. The swans were moored in the reeds, heads asleep under their winds. But a pair, he thought.

"We sat here often to watch the sun." He said to himself, as if to salve and wound at the same time. He smiled gently, and if his smile was wistful and a little sad, no one was there to see it.

Save for his own voice, there was no sound. The quiet was so complete that the sound of gravel shifting behind him had Edmund on his feet in an instant. He turned, and to his astonishment, saw a thin, cringing cur lying on its belly in the gravel of the path. The ribs of the dog were showing, and its muzzle was old and gray. Edmund only sighed. If his son had been here, he might have mustered a joke about old dogs and royal prerogatives, but as it was, one stray dog from the kitchens might as well keep him company.

"Did they chase you out?" Edmund asked lightly, going to one knee and holding out a hand in entreaty for the dog to sniff. "Hmm?" He said, letting the slender nose reach his palm, seeing the deep chest and long legs of the dog. "Too old for much." Doubtless the dog was an old royal hound, retired to the kitchens for scraps to grow fat and old on. "They don't let you get your share, I see." Edmund tried to chuckle, but it only came out choked.

The dog, though doubtless it had been badly used, lay on his belly to let Edmund fondle at his ears, and lay one hand down his side, over greasy, dirty fur that had once been fawn.

" My…." He said, and stopped. The dog only looked up with pleading brown eyes. There was no embarrassment to be had here. "My wife would have roused the whole castle in your defense. And I would have been first with her."

"Not in my kingdom," he whispered fiercely, hand clenched by his side. "To treat a dog thus?" He paused, and shut his eyes. "Or to treat a son."

Then there came a voice so low and so soft that the king thought it was a dream, or his wife Adelaide's voice as the bell of conscience in his thoughts.

"And _whom_ shall the prince marry?" The king's hand did not pause even once on the dog's side, remembering how the ages seemed to have passed since his wife's death.

"Let him marry for love," he said, and he thought the whisk of silvery tulle in the corner of his eye was a trick of the waking light.

But when the first wind of the morning brushed against him, Edmund felt the chill beneath his ribs. And then, his shoulders wrenched in pain, and his hands went to the agony in his chest, as if two discordant parts had, at last, come together. His dressing gown seemed too tight, the heart in his chest too large. He fell to his knees, hearing the dog whimper, hearing himself groan, and then to his side, as his heart raced in unbearable pain.

"Kit." He gasped, and then, "Adelaide."

When the servants found him later that morning, lying across the garden path, the kitchen dog standing loyally over him, they thought he was dead.


	3. He Hath Slept Long

**Title:** To Match Thy Goodness

 **Rating:** K+

 **Wordcount:** 938 (3133)

 **A/N:** You've heard it all before: fanfic writer + real life = long dead fanfiction. Well, life has cooled off for a while, and I remembered what I was doing with this story. So here's the next chapter, and look for an update next week some time.

* * *

He Hath Slept Long

 _So please your majesty  
That we may wake the king: he hath slept long._

…Doctor, _King Lear_ , Act IV, Scene VII

* * *

They had laid him in his bed, loose-limbed, his face still and serene as if in sleep. Kit had come at once, upon the news. Where the dog had come from, he didn't know, but he welcomed the slim form against his leg as he waited, desperately, impatiently, for any sort of news. His hands wanted something to do, but there was nothing to be done. The fire was leaping high, the bed was piled high with blankets and furs, and his father—! His father seemed smaller, in the midst of the great bed and the great efforts that surrounded him.

They had already assured him, twice, that the King was not dead. That there was not yet any cause for concern that the king might die, as if the disposal of the kingdom were most on his mind now, when his father might be dying. But the physicians were also at a loss to explain what precisely was wrong with the king.

"There is not a mark on him, your highness. Not a mark, or a sign to indicate what is wrong with him." Giles, the court physician, explained slowly. There had been a whole bevy of doctors and physicians, healers and apothecaries by the king's bedside for the morning, but slowly they had faded away as they admitted their ignorance to the cause of the king's condition. "If it were not impossible, I would say the King was as he looks, peacefully asleep."

"Could he not simply be asleep?" Kit wanted to know. Giles seemed to hear his unasked question.

"If it were a natural sleep, he should have stirred at our commotion," the physician gave a wry smile, "which we have been making a great deal of, since the King was found. But he has not. Nor has he the languor of pulse and coolness of flesh that I would expect for unnatural sleep. Perhaps, he may yet wake, but I do not know."

"That is troubling, physician." Broke in a new voice, the silky baritone of Ian, the Grand Duke. "Bad news indeed for the kingdom and the king."

Kit felt himself bristling, but forced himself to appear calm at least. The dog at his leg, quiet all this long time, made a low growl and showed sharp, if yellowed fangs. Giles seemed to sense that he was no longer needed, much less wanted, and disappeared with the quiet ease of a longtime member of court.

"Perhaps you will be taking up the reins of ruler earlier than you thought, my Prince." Ian said, raising an eyebrow as he looked across the foot of the bed to where Kit stood by his father's side.

Kit, for a long moment, stayed quiet, looking down at his father, who would have known precisely the right thing to say to not only rebuke Ian for his base remark, but also to suggest the proper course of action. He was, however, not yet his father in wisdom, nor in tempering his anger.

But neither would he be like the dog leaning on his left knee, raising his hackles at the obvious threat. Kit could not afford that, not at this juncture or with this man.

Ian seemed to be opening his mouth again. Kit beat him to it:

"Perhaps not yet." Kit raised an eyebrow, letting a loose smile play around the edges of his mouth. It would not do to show weakness here before the Grand Duke, not when the kingdom rested on his shoulders. "I will but hold them a little while for my father, the king." The message was sent, Kit thought, watching Ian's face (acquiesce?). Ian inclined his head a little.

"As you say, my Prince. I will leave you with the King." Ian bowed gracefully as he went for the door. Even six months ago, Kit would have had a witty if foolish repartee to cut across the Grand Duke's dignified shoulders as he retreated for the door. But after his meeting and fitting for the girl in the forest, he felt such a thing beneath him. He could be gracious in his victory, at least in this skirmish.

The door shut solidly behind them, and Kit released the breath that had buoyed up his dignity and his head in the past hour or so. What was he to do, now and a little while from now, when the whole kingdom would be watching? He had been trained and taught his whole life to rule, yet it seemed an impossible task facing him.

Kit knelt by his father's bed, sure in this moment that no one was watching. He took his father's slack hand in his, still warm, but without any of the rigor of the hearty muscle and bone that lay beneath the skin. In that moment, he would have done anything to have his father with him, for his counsel and comfort.

"Father." He said, and that lonely word sounded loud, echoing in the empty spaces of the king's bedchamber. And then, again, more quietly,

"Father." And Kit rested his head on his father's chest, as if he were a little boy again. He felt more than heard the slow, slow rhythm of the heart beneath his ear, seemingly obliterate all else for a moment.

"Promise me you will stay." Kit whispered, almost prayerfully. "I must find her. But you must live."

Then, with a fearful energy, Kit rose to his feet in one sure motion, and headed for the door without a single turn to look again at the man lying in the bed.

Night was coming on fast.


End file.
